


buried in water

by dykejaskiers



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Artistic Liberties, Dialogue Light, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, Origin Story, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:53:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24947191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykejaskiers/pseuds/dykejaskiers
Summary: Ivy bites the inside of her cheek until it bleeds and curls up by the window again. The orchestra of their domestic life soon follows. She draws curlicues on the windowpane and waits for the fists to come in.
Relationships: Selina Kyle & Ivy Pepper
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	buried in water

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [gothamnetwork's](https://gothamnetwork.tumblr.com/) June challenge, week four: before and after! I had no ideas for anything visual, and I really love Ivy as a character, so... here we are. Title taken from the titular song by Dead Man's Bones.
> 
> [my gotham tumblr](https://queergordon.tumblr.com/)

_“When the leaves go floating away_

_In the pale moonlight of day_

_Iury anchors in our ghosts_

_And we can let our heartbeats go.”_

_– Dead Man’s Bones, “Buried in Water”_

Ivy sits by the window where the faint glimmer of streetlight stretches in through the dusty panes, tracing patterns on the dirt. Her feet are lifted up on the make-do kitchen table, ankles crossed. The tips of her shoes are grinning, the leather creaked and worn open, and from her right foot the hint of a yellow sock creeps out. She wiggles the toe.

It's not late enough for her dad to be home, and her mom's sleeping on the couch with her cigarette burnt out on the floor, dropped down from her dangling fingers that are stretched outwards, as always, towards an unseen something. Her skin’s gone as yellow as Ivy's sock, and her nails are grimy and bitten short. Ivy takes the sight of all this in, absentmindedly chewing on her lip. Her mom's got a dulling purple and brown bruise colouring her pale cheekbone. She says it's fine. Ivy knows it's not.

A quiet sigh escapes her body as Ivy swings her feet to the floor and pads her way to the fridge. Empty. Mostly. There's beer for dad, and from the way her stomach's protesting she'd consider taking one, but she tried it once and then spent fifteen minutes spitting the taste out. It tastes gross the way her mom's cigarettes smell like. Those she'd never tried. 

A short scavenging of the pantry produces a can of black beans. Ivy takes it with her to the fire escape, where she sits on the rickety, groaning stairs and sticks her legs out over the edge. The alleyway smells of night air and sewers. The humidity sticks to her skin like a wet blanket. Ivy breathes it in, eating her beans and swinging her legs as she imagines what other cities in the world are like, and whether there's an Ivy somewhere who's eating hot stew or roasted vegetables or pumpkin pie, and whether she's happy there. Ivy's never been outside of Gotham, but her mom has, and she used to tell stories, sometimes. Not so much anymore.

She thinks back to the kid Selina showed to her, the rich one. Ivy doesn’t trust him – she doesn’t trust anyone, except Selina and maybe her mom. But Selina vouched for him, so he couldn’t be too bad. Ivy sets the empty can of beans down next to her, ignoring the way her stomach gurgles. If she was as rich as the Wayne kid, she’d buy enough food to fill their entire apartment. Then she’d get a new dress, or at least sewing stuff to mend this one, because there’s an escaped thread on the hem and a torn bit on the skirt. 

She doesn’t exactly know how much money the kid has, but he lives in a mansion she thinks, and he was dressed all fancy and clean, and smelled rich. So probably a lot.

Ivy sits by the fire escape for an hour or so, waiting to see if Selina will come and see her. She sometimes creeps from the rooftops and brings Ivy something nice. She’s a good friend. But tonight she must be busy, and so Ivy gives up and goes back inside, where her mom’s still snoring on the couch and the front door is creaking open to warn of the arrival of her father.

Ivy bites the inside of her cheek until it bleeds and curls up by the window again. The orchestra of their domestic life soon follows. She draws curlicues on the windowpane and waits for the fists to come in. 

Her plants are dying. Their water was cut off because her dad never pays the bills, is what her mom told Ivy. She lifts the brown and crusting edges of the leaves up, feeling a pang of guilt and grief hollow out her chest. The plants have become her new friends. Selina hasn’t come around a lot. Ivy thinks she’s running around with the Wayne kid. 

The plants listen. She whispers secrets to them, and she knows they hear her. Now they’re quiet and dying. Ivy scratches her cheek, still burning from her father’s anger, and wonders if she could make him different. If he could be better, then their water bill would be paid, and her plants wouldn’t be dying.

They understand her. The plants. They never demand anything. She picks up a bucket while her dad’s away and her mom’s asleep, and goes down to the river to pick up water. Carrying the litres back to their apartment and up the decayed stairs bears its weight on her shoulders, but the pain dissipates as soon as she pours the water for her plants, and watches with clear eyes as the soil drinks it up thirstily.

She does this until their water comes back on, but it still stops, sometimes. Her mom’s awake most of the time when she leaves, but she never asks where Ivy’s going. Mostly she stares at their old television with a glazed expression, mouth hanging slightly open in wonder.

Selina visits her a few times. Once, she brings her a bracelet she said she stole from the Wayne manor. It’s golden and thin, sinewy strands that tangle in a circle around her wrist and glisten in the light. Selina locks it on and says it reminded her of Ivy. She’s not sure how, but she doesn’t complain. Then she offers to split her tuna with her, and Selina produces a half eaten baguette from inside her coat she says she stole yesterday. They eat by the fire escape, listening to the faint sounds of police sirens in the distance.

Their water’s been cut off again. Ivy’s plants are drying up. 

And her father’s dead. Her mom’s sobbing in the living room, has been ever since the phone call, and Ivy sits on the fire escape, glad and sorry and sad and missing her plants and her dad. She can’t stop thinking about the water bill, and who’ll pay for it now. She wonders if her mom will get a job. She wonders if her mom will start drinking too, and if she’s mean when she’s drunk like her father is – was – and then, she misses Selina again. Her father’s no good, but he’s no murderer. The Wayne kid’s parents are dead, and that’s a shame, but her dad didn’t do it.

Doesn’t matter now, but she wishes they’d know that. Her mom knows that. Her mom’s smoking again, the smell of it wafting to Ivy, who crinkles her nose and closes the window.

The next time she opens the window, her mom’s lying on the floor with blood pooling around her. Ivy sits holding her hand until the people come to take her away.

“Pamela,” the lady says. She’s smiling at Ivy, presenting her with a clean dress and a hairbrush. “Why don’t you take a shower, and change out of those rags. It’s been long enough. I can brush your hair after.”

Ivy’s suspicious of the house she’s found herself in. The lady, Joan, smiles a lot but looks at Ivy like she’s a tick. She calls her Pamela, because she says it fits a lady better. Her husband calls her sweetie and little girl. Ivy doesn’t like any of those names, but telling them she’s called Ivy has gotten her nowhere.

She takes the dress – it’s soft, they make clothes this soft? – and the brush, and wordlessly walks over to the bathroom. The click of the door locking in makes her feel safer. 

Pamela. Ivy thinks the name over as she sits on the shower floor, her old clothes still on and the water turned scolding hot. She doesn’t get why she can’t just be herself. Her dad was shot by cops and her mom slit her wrists – she should get to keep Ivy. She lost her plants, because nobody cared when she said she wanted to take them. Joan’s husband is allergic to pollen, and so they can’t have flowers in the house. She feels a burning sense of resentment about that.

She turns the bracelet from Selina around in circles. Her wrist’s become thinner, so the lock would need adjustment, but who’ll do that, now? It’s been a few weeks in this house at the edge of Gotham, and Ivy doesn’t think Selina even knows where she is. Ivy barely knows herself.

Despite her old dress being dirty and ragged and full of holes, Ivy feels like she’s betraying herself as she slips into the new one.

Later, Joan’s untangling her hair and brushes her finger against an old bruise on Ivy’s neck. “Oh, my,” she says, distant. “We’ll get that covered over, Pamela.”

Ivy rather likes her bruises and scars. It’s not like she has anything else to remember her parents by. She says nothing and stays still. The house is cold despite her sitting in front of the fireplace.

Once Joan’s fed her and told her to go to bed, Ivy paces around in the dark of her room. She could probably find Selina, if she asked around. People know about Cat. She needs to get out of this house first, though.

There’s a satchel bag in the closet, alongside some clothes Joan had gotten for her. Ivy stuffs them in the bag with the hairbrush. Next she creeps through the silent house to the kitchen, where she spies canned apricots, tomatoes, and soup, and takes as many as she can fit. Joan’s husband’s wallet loses a few pounds, as well.

She’s gotten her shoes on when she hears the floor creak behind her. Joan’s husband is standing in the hallway a few feet away from her, hands on his hips. “Sweetie,” he starts. “What are you doing up so late? Come on, we’ll take you to your room.”

Ivy takes a step towards the front door. Joan’s husband frowns. “Come on,” he repeats, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “Are you scared? I can keep you company.” His eyes glint in the dark. Ivy tightens her hold on the strap of the satchel. 

“No,” she says.

“No?” He laughs. “Alright, little girl, don’t be ridiculous. Come on. Let’s go.”

Ivy feels for the handle of the door behind her back. She slides the lock open. “I’m going.”

“Going?” Joan’s husband looks confused. “Going where? Pamela, for God’s sake, just come with me–”

Ivy pushes the door open and turns around to sprint to the streets, leaving his shouting voice behind. He doesn’t come after her. No one does. Ivy runs for a few blocks, then slows into a jog. She finds her way into the Flea and stakes out a corner for herself with a worn and torn mattress.

Ivy sits down and let’s herself sink into the cacophony of feelings swelling up inside her.

_“Friendship with this world, ever more perfect_

_(if not for the salty smell of blood).”_

_– Adam Zagajewski_

“Come on,” Selina’s saying. She has her fingers wrapped around Ivy’s wrist, pulling her up from the street. Rain beats down on them hard, running rivers on the ground. Ivy sniffles, and let’s Selina help her.

The persistent cold hadn’t gone anywhere, even after Ivy tried to scour for herbs that might help. Her body’s been wracked with a high fever for a few days, and she feels dizzy – as Selina pulls her up, she sways on her feet. Selina’s grip never falters, though, and slowly but surely she guides them both towards the fancier, richer part of Gotham that Ivy so rarely frequents. 

It’s a nice apartment. Impersonal and empty, but Ivy had lived in a box, so she can’t complain. She takes a shower and borrows the too-large clothes of the owner while hers dry by the fireplace. Once she emerges from the spacious walk-in closet, Selina’s lounging on the sofa, ordering food. She puts on an accent and stresses that she expects speedy delivery.

“Chinese alright with you?” She asks once she puts the dial down. 

Ivy shrugs one shoulder.

Selina takes it as a yes. “Good. I got a lot of stuff, hope you’re hungry. Thanks to the lady of the house, I guess.”

Ivy sits down on a plush armchair and feels herself sink into it. She picks up a pillow and squeezes it against her chest, hugging it tight. “Who’s that?”

Selina closes her eyes and settles more comfortably on the sofa. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that she’s rich, and not here. You gotta eat, and then we’ll get rid of that cold.” She cracks one eye open and stares at Ivy. “Didn’t they take you in, anyway? What happened to that?”

Ivy shrugs again. “Ran away.”

“Good riddance,” Selina says, and that’s that.

They eat in silence, sitting on both ends of the massive sofa with Ivy wrapped inside a blanket. The rain’s turned into a soft tipper-tapper against the large window panes that offer a view into the greater Gotham just outside. Ivy stares at the blurry lights until she starts dosing off, at which point Selina ushers her to the bedroom. Ivy crawls under the blankets that feel like heavy clouds, and is asleep before her head hits the pillow.

The apartment is theirs for some time. Selina comes and goes, never saying what she does or where she’s been, but Ivy smells the rich cologne sometimes and knows she’s been with Bruce Wayne. 

Ivy starts collecting plants again. She starts small, with a few potted flowers, but then moves on to hanging plants and herbs, thistles and ferns, and eventually a few mushrooms that she puts in the bathtub. Their presence calms her. She chats with them, and sings short tunes that she always forgets the lyrics to. Selina doesn’t comment on the sudden greenery, but does take a closer look at the catnip. 

One day she leaves, and then she’s gone. Ivy hangs around for a week, then two. Selina doesn’t come back.

Ivy takes some of her plants and leaves.

The next time she sees Selina, they’re about to die. Or at least it seems like it. Ivy’s on the floor, dodging the drink being shoved her way. The smell of sewers is overwhelming. Selina’s yelling (everyone’s yelling) – and then Ivy’s falling down until she hears water splash around her, and she's submerged.

Cold. 

Burning.

And then nothing.

_“Now, snakeweed blooms along the trail choking_

_white and purple asters. A few bleeding_

_leaves fall amidst wilting greenery. Poison_

_Ivy turns red with warning.”_

_– Daniela Gioseffi_

Ivy spits out the taste of the river, but it clings to her skin and mouth and hair, stubborn and freezing cold. Shivering to the bone, she drags herself to the shore, cutting her palm on a sharp rock. She feels elongated – stretched out. The last memory she has is of Selina reaching for her, her face painted with horror, and then cold, cold, cold, washed away and horrible pain everywhere, her bones and joints and skin burning with ice. Ivy blinks furiously as it begins to rain. She looks down at herself.

It’s not her. It can't be. She lifts her hand, her palm bleeding down to her wrist. The bracelet's gone. The one from Selina. Her long fingers respond to her movements as she curls them, stretches them out, curls them again. She touches her face, molds the skin, and when she stands up, she’s taller than her mom ever was.

She's older than her mom was when she met her father. 

Sitting on the river shore, Ivy stares into the beating white-foamed waves and chokes down the hysterical laughter building in her chest.

The man who picks her up and takes her home smells of what her dad used to smell of. Alcohol and desperation waft off him in puffs that make Ivy sick. She gives the water intended for her to the plants that appear to be dying, and feels his eyes on her, roaming. Ivy watches his dead plants, rubs the dried up leaves between her fingers, and makes a choice.

Later, he's bleeding out on the floor. Ivy let's him be. She waters the plants, and takes a shower. She let's herself cry a little once she realises her scars from before are gone.

She's alone in the world.

The shower washes out the smell of the river and the blood, but not well enough - not to the roots. She sprays herself with perfume she found in his drawers, then brushes her hair and walks off to find some clothes. The soft fabric of the flannel feels comforting, so she wraps herself in a forest green plaid shirt, and a pair of trousers that fit her alright.

She asks the plants about the man. He's neglectful. Away a lot. Forgets to feed them, never talks to them like Ivy's talking. She brushes the leaves, pouting. She waters them again, before taking a nap on the man's couch. 

The plants start talking to her without her asking them to. They're quiet at first – shyly ask for water, care, love. But they get louder, and more desperate. They're all suffocating, they say – they're dying. Ivy feels a knife twist in her chest at their agony, the shrill pleas for help. She helps where she can, but she's only one person, and she can only do so much. Their need grows alongside her hunger to help.

Ivy gathers ingredients. She borrows seeds and petals and herbs, and she curates liquids and boils and dries and grinds, until she has what she thinks will help. She drinks the liquid in one go.

When she opens her eyes again, she can feel everything. She touches a plant, and it curls towards her, grows stronger. 

Ivy grins, blooming. 


End file.
